I Should've Listened
by SirLancelotTheBrave
Summary: When Arthur refuses to heed Lancelot's warning and a routine mission goes badly wrong, will Lancelot be able to save Arthur before it's too late? And what will it cost him? No slash but could be read that way. This is my first story. Please review!
1. A Routine Mission

It started out like any other mission. Track down some deserters who'd fled the garrison, heading east. Normally, such a mission would be below the Sarmatian knights, but they'd been without an outlet for too long now and Arthur had decided they needed the exercise to stop them from gambling and drinking their lives away.

They packed light and set out at dawn. Only Arthur and Lancelot, as the captain and second-in-command, were wearing any real armor; the rest preferred to travel light when they could. They carried limited supplies and only their favorite weapons, since they didn't expect much resistance from a band of deserters. Arthur rode in the lead, flanked by Lancelot. Tristan had ridden ahead to check the path for any hidden dangers. The rest of the knights followed behind, laughing and joking, happy to be out of the garrison at last.

At the back of the group one man rode alone. Atticus was a Roman soldier who'd been sent with the knights to identify the deserters should they try to hide in a village or disguise themselves. The knights ignored him completely, and he was obviously very uncomfortable. His armor and weapons were exceptionally shiny and clean and it was clear he'd never seen any real action.

"Why'd we have to bring that one along again?" Lancelot asked. "Couldn't Jols have come instead? He'd be better company."

"We have our orders, Lance," Arthur replied, but it was clear he didn't much care for the inexperienced soldier either. He knew that the boy could be a liability in a fight, and he'd hate to see one of his men get injured protecting him. He'd thought about assigning one man to him but feared that would breed resentment.

Lancelot read the unspoken concern in his captain's eyes, and blowing his curly black hair out of his eyes said grudgingly, "I'll keep an eye on him. Someone will have to." Arthur shot him a grateful glance, pleased that his best fighter would be watching over the lad.

They rode through the day, setting a brisk pace, until finally the sun began to drop behind the trees.

"Are we going to stop for the night or just keep riding 'til our balls fall off?" Bors called up eventually.

"What's the matter, Bors?" Lancelot called back. "Worried Vanora won't want you if that happens? Don't fret; I'll keep her company."

Gawain guffawed as Bors opened his mouth to shout abuse back at Lancelot, but Arthur cut him off. "We'll camp here for the night," he said, gesturing to the clearing they'd just entered. The knights set about preparing the camp, Bors muttering insults at Lancelot under his breath. Atticus was set on dinner duty, since all of the knights hated to cook. Luckily, the lad wasn't terrible. Tristan rode up just as the stew was being served.

"Where've you been?" Gawain called as Tristan dismounted. "Find anything to kill?"

Tristan's expression implied _no_. "Not much ahead. Rode to the coast. Tracks. Nothing definite. Saw some caves; hard to reach. Good place for an ambush. Might be there."

"Excellent work," Arthur said warmly. "Have some food. We'll head there in the morning."

The rest of the evening was spent drinking and joking. The highlight of the night was Bors attempting to tip Lancelot backwards off the log he was sitting on and accidentally knocking Arthur, Dag, and himself nearly into the fire in the process. Lancelot, of course, had jumped up before the log rolled and simply stood there laughing.

As the men prepared to go to sleep, Arthur stood to assign guard duty. "Galahad and Gawain will take the first watch, then Bors and Dagonet, then Tristan and Atticus," he ordered, following the usual pairs, assigning the boy to the only remaining knight. The young soldier glanced apprehensively at Tristan, who was feeding his eagle meat off his knife. "Lancelot and I will take the final watch. It doesn't hurt to be careful, even south of the Wall."

* * *

The night passed without event, unless one counted Tristran terrifying poor Atticus half to death by seeming to disappear at the start of their watch and reappear out of thin air just before the end in a tree on the edge of camp. Arthur rose just before dawn to wake Lancelot for the final shift, Atticus stumbling off to get some sleep.

A wave of affection washed through Arthur as he glanced around the fire at his friends' sleeping forms. Bors was sprawled near the fire, snoring loudly. Dagonet lay nearby, his head pillowed on his saddle. Gawain and Galahad were sleeping so close together they were nearly touching, a habit they'd picked up over the years. Both young knights were prone to nightmares; if one was tormented by bad dreams the other would feel them thrashing about and wake up. Atticus was already curled up in a ball on the opposite side of the fire, looking even more defenseless than usual as he drifted off to sleep. Arthur couldn't see Tristan from where he sat, but he assumed he was sleeping either in a tree or under a bush. Tristan hated to sleep in the open. Lancelot was sleeping on his right side, his back to Arthur, facing the forest. Looking around once more, Arthur shook off the feeling of foreboding he always got before leading his men into battle and moved to wake Lancelot.

When Arthur woke Lancelot for the last watch, the sky was already beginning to lighten. Lancelot rose, stretching, before looking at the lightening sky pointedly. "Well, you timed this well," he said with a grin. "There can't be more than an hour left before sunrise. That makes this the shortest watch, correct?"

Arthur smiled back at him but didn't admit to anything. They sat in companionable silence as their friends slept on. After a while, Arthur noticed that his friend was staring blankly into the distance. Nudging him with an elbow, he asked quietly, "Is something bothering you?"

Lancelot jumped and looked around guiltily. "Sorry… I was just caught up in my thoughts. There was this lovely wench and…" He trailed off as Arthur raised an eyebrow. "All right, all right. I was just thinking about those deserters."

"What about them?" Arthur asked, not understanding.

"How I almost wish… oh, I wish we didn't have to kill them!" Lancelot confessed, looking away. Seeing Arthur's confused expression, he continued, "I just understand where they're coming from. There are days when I'd give anything to leave this island and never come back. To just go _home_."

Arthur felt like a knife had been driven between his ribs. He always felt that when one of his men spoke of their home, but it was worse to hear it from Lancelot, whose desire to go home seemed stronger than the rest. He loved all his knights more dearly than brothers, and it pained him to know that he was keeping them here against their will. Yes, he was under orders, but that didn't help with the guilt. So many times he'd prayed to God to get his men through safely, but over the years they'd lost more and more until only a handful were left. They'd be discharged in less than two years, but Arthur felt as if the blood of every fallen brother was forever on his hands. _And a lot can go wrong in two years_, a voice whispered in the dark part of his mind.

Lancelot went on, unaware of Arthur's reaction. "The desire to run isn't so bad now, not with our discharge fast approaching, but until I was 15, before you became our commander… those were the worst years of my life."

A memory of a teenage boy tied to a stake, blood pooling at his feet from the gashes on his back, flashed though Arthur's mind, and he winced. It wasn't often that Lancelot spoke so plainly, and Arthur wondered why he was doing so now. Before he could say anything further, he heard Bors' snoring cut off as he sat up and stretched. He watched as Gawain rolled over, one hand smacking against Galahad's shoulder, causing the latter to sit up and yawn hugely. Beside him, Lancelot stood and aimed a gentle kick at Dagonet's slumbering form before leaving to find and wake Tristan. Arthur sighed, realizing the conversation was over, and moved to help Atticus with breakfast.

The knights ate quickly and broke camp, eager to be back on the road. By midday they'd reached the edge of the woods, coming to the shore where Tristan had stopped the day before. A ways down the coast they could see the caves he'd described, only accessible by following a thin path along a perilously narrow cliff edge. Beside him, Lancelot was looking back into the forest, frowning, his black horse dancing nervously beneath him.

"Well, you look cheerful," Gawain commented, riding up. "Is this your happy face?"

The others laughed but Lancelot continued to look grim. "I don't like this place," he murmured to Arthur. "Something feels wrong. We should proceed carefully."

"If anything was wrong, Tristan would have told us last night," he said, surprised at his friend's reluctance.

"Hmmm," was Lancelot's only response.

"There's a fort beyond those hills," Tristan called to them, trotting up. "Small. Good for supplies."

"Good. We should set up a camp here to use as a base. We'll need to check those caves and the forest around here as well. Who here is not afraid of heights?" Arthur asked, looking around. Galahad, Dagonet, and surprisingly, young Atticus stepped forward. "Right. Lancelot will lead you to search the caves. If you find the deserters, kill them; there's no use trying to bring prisoners down the path. The rest will come with me to begin scouting the forest. We'll leave the horses at camp. Meet back here at dusk."

As the other knights began to break out the supplies, Lancelot walked over to stand beside Arthur. "I'm not sure it's a good idea to split up," he said quietly. "There is something wrong here. These deserters should have left a trail a child could follow, but there's no sign of them. And why go to the caves? There's no way out!" He paused before continuing more quietly, "I don't think we should separate. Why not wait until morning and search the forest together?"

Arthur didn't understand what was going through the mind of his second. "We'll accomplish more by splitting up. Everyone here can handle themselves, and we'll take all necessary precautions," he said, wondering why his friend seemed so unsettled.

"Arthur, please, trust me on this. Something is not right," Lancelot insisted. The others were nearly ready now and Arthur saw Tristan watching him in his peripheral vision. This was getting ridiculous. He had no idea what had gotten in to Lancelot, but they were wasting time. "Arthur…" Lancelot began again. Arthur didn't know why his friend was questioning his orders but this needed to be stopped immediately before the others noticed.

"I have made my decision, Lancelot," he snapped, more loudly than was necessary. He saw Galahad and Gawain glance up at him quickly before looking away, pretending to be busy, while Atticus stared in open surprise. The boy's attention made him feel self-conscious and he turned away, irritated.

Lancelot reached out a hand to grab his arm, clearly meaning to argue further, but Arthur was done discussing this. He felt foolish, having his orders questioned in front of a young Roman soldier who would surely carry the story back to his garrison and its commander. "This conversation is over, Lancelot! I have given you your orders."

Lancelot opened his mouth to speak, but Arthur cut him off, feeling anger bubbling in his chest. "Enough! You will do as I command. To disobey is insubordination. You will follow my orders now or so help me I'll…" he trailed off weakly as he suddenly registered the words coming out of his mouth. He hadn't just said that, had he? Insubordination? No, no, no, no, no. But the look on Lancelot's face said it was too late to take it back, told him he'd gone too far, that he'd recalled memories better left forgotten.

The image of a boy tied to a stake flashed through his mind again. Lancelot had been punished frequently for his defiance and his sharp tongue when he was younger, and Arthur knew his back still bore the scars of repeated whippings. Arthur had never ordered one of his men lashed, and he knew that set him apart in the others' eyes, in Lancelot's eyes. But now he'd crossed the line, threatened his closest friend with that most hated punishment. Lancelot's eyes had gone cold with rage, and without another word he turned away. Arthur could sense the other knights staring at him; he didn't need to look at them to feel the blame in their expressions.

"Lance…" he began, not knowing what to say, but desperately needing to bridge the sudden chasm between them. But his second had already grabbed his swords and walked away. Slinging them over his shoulder, he called the others, who scrambled to grab their weapons and follow. Behind him, Arthur heard Bors shout, "Don't fall off the bloody cliff!" to Dagonet, and he knew that Gawain would watch Galahad until he was out of sight. These were their rituals. It was impossible not to form close bonds with all of your fellow knights in such a place, but certain pairs had deeper friendships than others, and it showed. That's why it was so much worse that he'd been the one to remind Lancelot of his bloody past; he knew him best of all, knew what that threat would drag to light, but he'd unthinkingly done it anyway, and now his friend was headed into possible danger without giving him a chance to apologize.

He sighed deeply as the figures disappeared into the mist rolling in off the sea, and sent a wordless prayer to God to watch over his knights when he could not.

* * *

Lancelot felt numb with anger. He'd been angry before; all of the knights had. It was impossible not to carry anger with you everywhere, given all the frustrations the Sarmatian knights faced on a daily basis. It was so easy to get angry, and so hard to find relief. Bors drowned his anger in wine and Vanora; Dagonet simply ignored those who mistreated him; Tristan practiced and killed; Galahad and Gawain confided in each other; even Arthur had his god. Lancelot had nothing, no means of coping, except to internalize the rage, let it eat away at him. He hid his pain behind a sarcastic smirk and cynicism, burying his hurt deep inside. That's what he'd done all those years ago, every time he was lashed at the post. His anger had bloomed into a hatred of Rome and all things Roman. Arthur was his only exception.

But now his closest friend had just put on the mask of the enemy, if only for a moment, and Lancelot was _furious_. It showed in the stiffness of his posture, the tightness of his eyes, and the fact that he hadn't said a word since they'd left. Dagonet was fine with silence and it suited him well, and young Atticus was too shy and awed to say a word, but Galahad was going crazy. He hated the quiet and he kept fidgeting with his knife. His few attempts to break the ice were met with stony indifference. He sighed, wishing that Gawain's fear of heights hadn't kept his friend from joining them. _Maybe I shouldn't have volunteered_, he thought ruefully.

After about an hour, they reached the base of the path that led up to the caves. The ascent was difficult and left little breath for speech. When they were almost at the top, Galahad lost his footing and nearly fell. He caught a glimpse of the sharp rocks far below and has a moment to think_ this is it_ before Dagonet dragged him back on the path. Atticus was staring at him, horrorstruck. Lancelot looked back and asked if he was okay before continuing on. Galahad consoled himself with the thought that at least he'd broken the unbearable silence.

They reached the entrance of the cave without further incident. "Split up," Lancelot whispered, signaling that Dagonet should enter the cave from the left with Galahad while he and Atticus entered from the right.

The setting sun had passed behind a cloud, so it was almost impossible to see anything. Nevertheless, they went in, swords drawn in preparation. The only sound they heard was the crashing of the waves far below and the shuffling of the stones beneath their feet. "I don't think anybody is home," Galahad muttered eventually, when suddenly the sun emerged and shone directly into the cave.

It was like something out of a nightmare. The walls and floor of the cave were awash in blood. The remains of several men were strewn across the floor, hacked to pieces. Limbs were piled up on one side, with torsos opposite and heads at the back. From the scraps of red cloth and armor that were visible, they were probably looking at the remains of the deserters. Behind them, Atticus could be heard retching.

"What… what _did_ this?" Atticus asked fearfully, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, refusing to look back at the grisly sight. "Woads?"

"Aye," said Dagonet grimly. "But not the kind you know. These are far more dangerous and cruel, and they've never come so far south before. Now we're really in trouble."

"What do you mean?" the boy whispered.

"He means that now we're dealing with Picts," Lancelot said bitterly. Galahad's face paled slightly and Atticus gasped.

"But… but… they never come south of the Wall! _Ever!_ How could they even get here?!" the boy demanded, obviously terrified at the mention of Britain's most dangerous tribe.

"Those questions are really not important," Lancelot snapped. "We need to get back to the others, _now_. If there are Picts still about, you can bet they're in that forest."

Galahad and Dagonet nodded. As they turned to leave, Dagonet stooped to grab the boy's shoulder and half-carried, half-dragged him out of the cave

Lancelot surveyed the scene one last time. A knot formed in his stomach at the thought that his unprepared friends were about to walk right into an encounter with the merciless warriors of the far North. He hoped that Arthur's god would protect him until they could get there.


	2. We Must Find Them

By the time they made it back to their camp, night had fallen. One glance told Lancelot that the others hadn't returned. The knot in his stomach tightened as he turned to Dagonet.

"You and Atticus stay here in case they come back. Galahad and I will search the edges of the forest. Maybe we'll run into them on their way out." Dagonet nodded and went to sit by the fire. Lancelot glanced at Galahad, who was fidgeting with his knife again, and together they walked into the darkness.

It didn't take long to reach the edge of the woods. They could clearly see the others' tracks by the light of the full moon. There were prints where they'd entered the forest, but none to show that they had come out again.

Galahad had stopped fidgeting and was now completely focused on the task at hand. Lancelot had left Dagonet behind because he knew that Galahad would have grown more and more anxious if he were left at camp, and he didn't want to leave someone so on edge with an inexperienced soldier, not with Picts about. Dagonet was better suited to look after the boy and protect them both. Galahad was a fine knight and a great warrior, but he hated waiting, and the fact that Gawain was among their missing friends did not help.

The woods were quiet. Eerily quiet. That was a bad sign. They moved almost silently through the trees, searching for any clues, ears pricked for the slightest noise. Overhead, Lancelot heard the beat of wings. Owl, he thought, before realizing a split second later that an owl's wing beats would be silent. He glanced up. Sure enough, Tristan's eagle was perched just above him, feathers ruffled and looking angry. Lancelot whistled softly to Galahad and pointed to it just before it took off again.

Moving faster, they followed it, heading deeper into the heart of the forest. It led them to a clearing beside a small stream. From the looks of it, a violent struggle had taken place. Blood had soaked the grass, and broken weapons littered the ground. Turning, Lancelot saw Galahad bend over to pluck something off the ground. Gawain's hunting knife. Galahad looked up, and Lancelot could see the rage burning in his eyes.

From the amount of blood, it was clear Arthur and the others had been attacked and had killed many of their attackers before succumbing. There were no bodies, which led Lancelot to hope that maybe they were still alive. If they were, he shuddered to think what the Picts wanted with them. They had to get them back.

"No bodies," Galahad said, voicing Lancelot's thoughts. "Why would they take them?"

A sound in the bushes made both men spin around, drawing their weapons.

"There!" Galahad whispered urgently, peering into the dense undergrowth. Lancelot ran over to where Galahad was pointing. "In there," he repeated. Pulling out his sword, Lancelot began to cut away the bushes until he could crawl under them. A moment later, he emerged, dragging Tristan's bloody form.

* * *

It seemed to take forever to get him back to camp. He had a bad injury to his head and an arrow in his shoulder, along with many lesser injuries, but he was breathing, and for now that was enough. The eagle followed them closely, crying out every few minutes. When they finally made it out of the trees, Lancelot sent Galahad ahead to get Dagonet and start preparing bandages. A few minutes later, Dag came running out of the mist. Leaning over, he gently grabbed Tristan's injured body and carried him back to camp.

"What happened?" he grunted as he set him down near the fire. "Where are the others?"

"We don't know," Lancelot panted, still winded from carrying Tristan. "We found him in a clearing covered in blood. Looks like there was some kind of battle. No bodies from either side, just a lot of blood and some weapons." At this, Galahad pulled Gawain's dagger out of his belt and showed it to Dagonet. "We found him under some bushes. I was hoping he'd wake up and tell us who attacked them, but it looks like that isn't going to happen."

"We don't have the supplies with us to tend to him properly," Dagonet said, glancing up.

Lancelot sighed. "I know. That's why as soon as it's light I'm taking him to that fort. Don't argue," he said, raising a hand to stop the arguments already forming on their lips. This was his order to give; he was Arthur's second. "If we don't, he'll die. If we're lucky, they'll have some armor and weapons they can spare at that fort, too. Maybe they know where the Picts are. I'll take Atticus with me. We'll be back by tomorrow morning."

He could tell that they didn't like the plan, but they couldn't just go blundering through the forest without any idea where they were going, or they'd end up captured too.

The night passed in a state of constant anxiety. No one spoke again. Atticus was assigned to watch over Tristan while the others sharpened weapons and prepared. Dagonet hadn't asked about Bors, but his normally neutral expression was decidedly grim, and at one point he snapped an arrow he was fletching. Galahad sat by the fire and turned Gawain's knife over and over in his hands, staring blankly at it. Lancelot paced, unable to sit still. Every time he stopped moving, his mind conjured images of his friends, injured or dead. No one slept that night.

The next morning Galahad and Dagonet helped him get Tristan on a horse and sent him off, eliciting promises of a speedy return.

* * *

They reached the fort by midafternoon. When the men manning the fort learned that the wounded man was a Sarmatian knight and not the barbarian he initially appeared, they immediately hustled him off to the infirmary. Lancelot was fairly sure he'd be alright; he'd survived far worse. Hopefully, he'd wake soon, because he was the only one who knew what had happened. In the meantime, Lancelot had to deal with the self-important commander of the garrison, Marcus Servius, who treated him like a savage and repeatedly directed his questions to Atticus; in his mind, only a Roman could possibly be in charge.

He left Atticus with the man (after warning him to tell him nothing) and went to see if Tristran was awake. The surgeon told him that he was sleeping, but he'd been lucid for a few minutes and had asked the doctor to pass on a message. Something about underground caves in the forest.

Lancelot thanked the doctor for the information and headed back out to the courtyard. He needed to ask the officer for some extra arrows and basic armor, but the man seemed content to ignore him completely and continue his animated discussion with Atticus, apparently about how well-run the fort was.

Lancelot put up with this for all of five seconds before he'd had enough. "Listen, our captain and several knights were captured in the woods. We believe their attackers were Picts. What do you know about this?"

When he mentioned Picts, the blood drained from the officer's face. After a moment, he rallied, saying pompously, "Picts? There are no Picts south of Hadrian's Wall, pagan."

He felt a flash of anger surge though him. "I saw their handiwork last night. I know they are here. They killed a band of deserters, and to take out Arthur and the others, there must be a lot of them. There's no way they've passed unnoticed for this long, so I'm guessing you're just too scared or inefficient to deal with them." The officer's face paled slightly but he did not deny it. Anger surged within him at the man's callousness. "What's it matter to you if they kill all the pagan farmers around? So long as they don't come near your precious Roman fort!" he spat out, worry for his friends clouding his better judgment.

Servius' face had gone bright red. "Insolent savage!" he shouted, enraged. "I will have you whipped for this."

"Right!" Lancelot yelled back, past the point to caring what this little man threatened. His friends could be _dying_. "I don't think I'll let you do that. Come on, Atticus," he said, turning to leave.

"Seize them," the man shouted, blinded by fury. In a heartbeat, both of Lancelot's swords were at his throat. He stared into black eyes and saw no mercy. "Le-let them go," he stammered.

"Fine choice," Lancelot snarled, and stalked out, the young soldier following behind. They'd barely ridden a mile before he realized Atticus was slowing. "What is it?" he asked the boy, anxious to get back to the others.

"We… we should go back," the boy said, looking terrified. "You disobeyed an officer. That was wrong, even if he was being unreasonable. He's your superior. We should go back."

"If we go back now, we will never save Arthur and the others in time," Lancelot explained, struggling to be patient. Seeing the boy still wasn't convinced, he sighed deeply. "When we return with them, once they are safe, I will accept whatever punishment that man deems fit for my 'disobedience,' okay? You have my word," he said, hating every word but knowing there was nothing else he could do. He wasn't going to let the boy go back there now, not when they'd just enraged the commanding officer.

"Okay," Atticus said after a minute, and Lancelot breathed a sigh of relief.

They rode through the night and arrived back at the camp at dawn. Galahad and Dagonet greeted them with relief, asking about Tristan and whether he'd told them anything.

"The Picts are underground," Lancelot explained briefly. "We attack tonight."

* * *

Arthur woke slowly, pain burning through him. He didn't open his eyes immediately, feigning sleep, trying to figure out where he was. He could hear voices in the background, but he couldn't figure out what they were saying. Footsteps approached and suddenly all the air left his lungs as the unknown man kicked him viciously in the ribs. Another blow landed on his head, and he drifted back into unconsciousness.

* * *

Bors felt utterly useless. For all his efforts, his hands were still bound tightly behind his back. His inability to break free heightened his sense of humiliation: it was bad enough that one of his assailants had got a lucky shot off as the battle began, knocking him unconscious before he managed to kill anybody, but now he couldn't even break free? He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his face against the cold dirt floor: Dag would never let him live it down.

* * *

Gawain's leg was on fire, and he knew that if left untreated it would soon fester. He'd lost a lot of blood and there were enemies all around him, but all he could think about was how worried Galahad was going to be. He knew his friend was more likely to make costly mistakes when he was nervous, and found himself hoping, as he drifted off, that Galahad wouldn't come after him alone.

* * *

They crept silently through the trees. They had passed the clearing over an hour before, so he knew they must be close to the caves Tristan had seen. He had no idea what kind of defenses they'd be dealing with once they got there, or even what they were looking for, so for now they remained hidden, silent as shadows. Eventually, he saw the faint outline of a dark opening in the earth. He signaled the others and they converged upon it.

Once he was sure there were no guards directly inside the mouth, he signaled again and they crept in. To his dismay, immediately inside the cave branched out in three different directions, each of which had obviously been used recently. Light shone very faintly from the ends of each. Looking back at his men, he made a quick decision.

"Dag, you head down the left tunnel. Try to remain unseen unless you find Arthur or the others." Dagonet nodded and headed off. "Galahad, you go down the right. I'll head down the middle one with Atticus."

"Be careful," Galahad whispered as they split up.

* * *

Dagonet moved quickly and quietly down the left tunnel, pausing when he heard voices up ahead. A smaller cave branched off the main tunnel; light in the wall told him there was a fire within. Loud, boisterous voices could be heard; from the sound of it, the warriors were celebrating their victory. He smiled grimly: drunk then. Not daring to look around the corner in case the saw him, Dagonet opted for the more direct approach; he whipped around the corner as fast as he could and killed the five Picts before they even realized they were under attack. Bors looked up from where he sat against the wall. "Took you long enough," he grunted.

* * *

All of his caution vanished as Galahad practically ran down the tunnel, desperately hoping to find his friends before something terrible happened to them. Rounding a corner, he ran right into a Pict warrior, who seemed to have been entertaining his friends with a rousing tale of his bravery. Galahad's sudden appearance knocked him straight into the fire. Galahad himself fell backwards, landing awkwardly on his left wrist, which twisted beneath him but thankfully did not break. He caught a glimpse of Gawain lying behind the warriors, covered in blood, and he was back on his feet in a heartbeat, cutting down warriors like saplings. One managed to get past his guard and cut his cheek; then they all lay dead, the first man still smoldering. Galahad ran to check his friend, feeling dizzy with relief as he realized he was still breathing. He ripped off a piece of his shirt to use as a temporary bandage, then grabbed Gawain and began to make his way back down the passage.

* * *

Lancelot and Atticus crept silently down the tunnel. For almost ten minutes, they saw nothing but the faint light, but eventually they came to a corner around which they heard voices. The voices were speaking in a dialect that Lancelot had never heard, guttural and coarse. He didn't know what they were saying, but he didn't like the sound of it.

Risking a quick glance around the corner, he saw that the space beyond contained ten Picts and one bound figure, lying near the fall wall. His face was to the wall, but Lancelot was sure it was Arthur. He felt his blood boil with rage as one of the warriors aimed a kick at him, but the body didn't budge, and Lancelot realized he was unconscious. He glanced back quickly at Atticus and unsheathed his second sword quietly. Atticus pulled out a knife and nodded his readiness.

Lancelot spun around the corner and had killed two Picts before they even realized he was there. Two more slipped past him and he spared one worried thought for Atticus before he forgot him completely as his battle instincts took over. He slashed and whirled, blocking killing blows from the remaining Picts, cutting them down one by one until only one remained before him. A cry behind him made him turn in time to see Atticus pull a short knife out of his shoulder and use it to kill the Pict who'd injured him. Lancelot spared a wry grin, glad the boy could handle himself, before turning back to the last Pict, who had backed away while he was distracted and now had his knife against Arthur's throat.

Lancelot froze, the blood pounding in his ears. All he could see was the malicious smile on the warrior's face, the glint of firelight on the knife blade. The man was speaking again, and Lancelot didn't need to know the language to know he was being told to drop his weapons. He heard a clang behind him as Atticus obeyed without hesitation. He lifted his arms, showing the Pict both his swords. He slowly let the left one drop, and as the man's eyes followed its motion he hurled his right sword straight at him, sending it through his left eye and dropping him like a stone. Lancelot was moving before the body hit the ground, catching Arthur's limp form and pulling him back up before using his knife to cut the ropes from his wrists.

Atticus was hovering over his shoulder. "Is he alright?" he asked worriedly.

Lancelot didn't answer at first, too busy trying to find that out for himself. Arthur had several cuts on his arm and chest and one particularly nasty one across his back, not to mention numerous bruises and what were most likely several cracked ribs, but his breathing was normal and none of the wounds were life threatening. He sat back, exhaling in relief. "He'll be fine," he told the lad with a small smile. "Now let's get out of here."

He moved to recover his sword, turning to find Atticus staring at him in awe. "That was incredible," the boy murmured. "How did you learn how to do that?"

"I didn't," Lancelot replied with a wry smile. "I've never done that before. Good to know I can, though."

Ignoring the stricken look on the boy's face, he reached down to grab Arthur, pulling one of his arms across his shoulders. Atticus moved to Arthur's other side, and together they half-carried, half-dragged the taller man back towards the entrance. Dagonet was already there, looking fine except for a bloodstained shirt. It took only seconds to figure out that none of it was his. Bors was sitting beside him. They both jumped up as Lancelot approached, relaxing only when Atticus assured them that Arthur was alright.

"You okay, Bors?" Lancelot asked.

Bors grinned sheepishly. "Yeah, I'm alright. They hit me on the head about a minute into the fight, so I'm not really hurt. Just a headache really. Still not sure how they managed that."

Lancelot smiled back at him. "Yeah, to crack your thick skull must have taken a lot of work! No sign of Galahad or Gawain?" he asked, growing somber.

"None," Dagonet said quietly.

"Okay then," he said passing Arthur's still unconscious form to Bors. "See if you can wake him up. I'm going to go and see what's keeping them."

"I'll come with you," Atticus offered, but one pointed look at his bleeding shoulder and he sat back down.

"I won't be long," he promised before heading back down the tunnel. Two minutes later he nearly walked into Galahad, who was all but dragging Gawain behind him. Galahad had a shallow cut on one cheek and held his left arm like it pained him. Gawain was unconscious, but the red stain on his left leg said he'd been injured pretty badly. Lancelot ran up and took most of Gawain's weight off Galahad, who refused to let go completely. They made it out at last and stood panting while Dagonet quickly stopped the bleeding. They took a few moments' respite as dawn lightened the sky.


	3. They're Killing Him

It was Lancelot who broke the silence. "We'd better go," he said looking back towards the cave. "There are sure to be more around, and they'll want vengeance." The others nodded. Dagonet slung Gawain over his shoulders, while Bors helped Lancelot with Arthur. Galahad and Atticus acted as scouts.

Eventually they reached the clearing where they'd tied their horses, grateful to have heard no signs of pursuit. Galahad took Gawain with him, holding the reins with his right hand. Bors passed Arthur to Lancelot once he was mounted. Arthur stirred slightly but did not wake. They rode out of the forest and started towards the fort as the sun rose.

When at last the fort was in sight, Lancelot breathed a sigh of relief. He knew the surgeons there could handle his friends' injuries. They thundered into the courtyard and he dismounted quickly, pulling Arthur's unconscious form off his horse. He could see the dismounting and heading towards the infirmary, Dagonet carrying Gawain.

He passed Arthur off to an aide and stopped for a moment, breathing in the relief of finding all his friends alive and (mostly) well. Once it had settled down, he too would head to the infirmary. Since he wasn't injured, to go now would just put him in everybody's way. Another aide ran by and he turned to ask about Tristan when something slammed into the side of his face. He fell to his knees as two soldiers grabbed his arms. Before he knew what was happening, one had pulled off his armor and sliced through his shirt while the other tied his hands to a tall post. His head swimming, he looked up to see the sneering face of Marcus Servius. He felt vaguely embarrassed that the small man had gotten the jump on him.

"I told you I'd have you whipped, pagan," he said maliciously. "I think, mmmm, fifty lashes ought to cover your insolence." He laughed maliciously, signaling to one of his soldiers to take his position.

Out of the corner of his eye, Lancelot saw Atticus reenter the yard and look around, his arm in a temporary sling. He caught one glimpse of his horrified expression before the boy turned and fled back to the infirmary. For a moment, he wondered if the boy had gone to get the others. The next moment, all thoughts fled his mind as the soldier cracked the whip across his back as hard as he could.

Lancelot had been whipped many times, but never for so long, or with such brutality. After twenty strokes, he was seeing spots. He would've lost count if the man hadn't been shouting the strokes. His lips were bleeding where he'd bitten them to keep from screaming. He wouldn't give this bastard the pleasure of hearing him scream. By the thirtieth stroke, he thought he could hear an argument going on in the background, Dagonet's voice rising angrily over the sound of the lash, but he knew they couldn't stop it, couldn't stop the Romans, and so he drowned them out. By the forty-fifth stroke, he was fairly sure that this was going to kill him. In the back of his mind, he thought about the irony of escaping murderous Picts just to be murdered by Romans.

His eyes were closed and he'd long since lost the strength to hold himself up. He hung from the post weakly, head on his chest. The rope was cutting into his wrists, but he could barely feel that pain over the other. When the next stroke came, he wanted to die. There were only four more, but he knew that was four too many. He knew the man's rhythm by now, knew exactly when the next blow would fall. Just before it did, however, he heard a new voice join the argument still taking place behind him. It sounded vaguely familiar, and it sounded furious. It was shouting something that sounded distantly like, "Stop!"

He'd heard that word before and nothing had happened, so he was dimly surprised when the blow didn't fall. Through the haze of pain he heard the furious voice again, which seemed so familiar, saying things like, "You will obey my orders," and, "Stripped of command," and, "I should kill you right now," and finally, "Get out of my sight."

Then suddenly a knife was cutting away the rope around his wrists, and hands were grabbing him so he wouldn't fall. The voice was saying, "Lancelot! Lancelot, look at me! Lancelot!" and he wanted to obey that voice, he really did, but he couldn't open his eyes and he certainly couldn't talk. He heard other voices joining the first, and then someone tried to pick him up, touching his back in the process, and the pain flared once, worse than ever, before he slipped gratefully into the blissful darkness.

* * *

Arthur thought he had known true terror, but nothing compared to the terror he felt seeing the broken body of his dearest friend bleeding out in the courtyard.

He'd woken in bed to a room full of shouting. While he tried to get his head to stop spinning, the shouting had moved outside. He'd heard Galahad yell something that sounded like, "Stop it, you're going to kill him!" He heard someone say his name, something about how only he'd be able to stop him, then that young soldier who'd been with them before burst through the doors, looking around desperately until he found Arthur. He ran up to the side of the bed, trembling and gasping.

"Please, my lord, please, you have to come quick, they're killing him, there's blood everywhere, so much blood, and the others said you're the only one with the authority to make him stop without getting us all killed."

The only line of that Arthur had registered was _they're killing him_. "Killing who?" he demanded, scrambling out of bed and trying to ignore his dizziness. "Killing who?!"

The boy looked up, eyes wide. "Lancelot," he breathed, and Arthur went numb.

He didn't quite remember how he made it to the courtyard, but he heard a man call "Forty-five!" and then he was through the doors, watching as an enormous soldier raised a whip high above his head. He saw his knights surrounded by armed guards, restrained but still arguing, trying to fight, Gawain leaning heavily on Galahad. He saw a man in an officer's uniform standing, smirking at the man tied to the post with a gloating superiority. He watched blankly as the soldier lifted the whip and brought it down again on Lancelot, his second-in-command, his best friend, and his vision went red as he heard the call, "Forty-six!"

He didn't know how it was he kept himself from strangling that little gloating man right then and there. Somehow, he got rid of him and that was all that mattered because at least the whipping _stopped_, and then he was at the post, cutting his friend free, catching him before he fell. He could hear his own voice begging for a sign, begging Lancelot to speak, to open his eyes, to do something to prove he was still alive, because there was so much blood, far too much blood.

He saw Dagonet in front of him, saw him trying to lift Lancelot's body in his arms, but a savage growl ripped through him and he clutched him tighter, staggering to his feet in the direction of the infirmary. There he did have to relinquish Lancelot to the surgeons, but he refused to leave the room, and so he saw the extent of the damage when the blood was all washed away, saw the new wounds crisscrossing old scars. He felt hollow, empty; there was no anger or pain, just a silent terror, because nobody so badly injured should still be breathing. He didn't even pray, knowing Lancelot didn't believe in the same god, and how could God have allowed this anyway? He just sat there and stared while the surgeons worked, and stayed long after they'd finished stitching him up as best they could, warning him that all their skill couldn't save him if the wounds became infected.

He heard someone outside saying no one was to enter the room, but nobody even bothered trying to make him leave. Lancelot looked so vulnerable under all the bandages, lying on his stomach amidst the piles of pillows. He didn't know how long he stayed there, but people came to change the bandages every two hours, and they'd come several times. At one point, they offered him food, but he hadn't touched it. It had barely been an hour since the last time and already the blood was soaking through. He'd sat with Lancelot when he'd been injured in battle before, sat with all of his knights after they'd been injured, even watched some die; but to see such cruelty done, intentionally, and by his own people… Arthur felt sick knowing that the last thing he'd said to Lancelot was tantamount to a threat to do just this. And now he might die without ever hearing that Arthur was sorry, so sorry for everything.

That he couldn't live with. He was fairly sure Lancelot couldn't hear him, but he said the words anyway, over and over again, letting the tide of grief rush out of him like a flood. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, please don't die Lancelot, please, you can't do this to me, not you, I've lost too much, please, I can't lose you too." He repeated this so often that it became like a refrain. To lose one more knight, so close to freedom, especially _him_… he knew it would drive him mad with grief and guilt. _I should've listened._

As he apologized for probably the eightieth time, he thought he heard something else. Pausing for a second, he looked around. Hearing nothing more, he assumed he had imagined the faint sound. Then he heard it again as Lancelot opened one eye slightly and whispered, "I'm offended."

This was not the response Arthur had expected and it left him momentarily lost for words, stunned into silence. "Wh-what?" he managed eventually.

"I'm offended," Lancelot repeated, his voice raspy and weak. "I've survived worse than this. Do you think that little of me?" He chuckled faintly at his own joke.

Arthur choked out a strangled laugh, and then he was crying and laughing, all his anxiety leaving his body in one go, because Lancelot was awake, and if he was awake he'd probably be okay. He still had a high fever and there was a real chance of infection, but having him conscious was enough for now.

"Are you all right?" Lancelot asked after a moment. Arthur looked at him in confusion as he continued, "You were unconscious when I found you."

It took Arthur a minute to realize he was actually asking about his health. Laughing weakly, he replied, "I'm fine. You would ask about mywell-being after being whipped nearly to death."

Lancelot did not smile. "And the others? Tristan? Gawain?"

"Both fine, already up and about. We're just waiting on you now," Arthur teased lightly, amusement turning to horror as Lancelot actually attempted to push himself off the bed. "What do you think you're doing? You're not getting out of that bed until the surgeons say you're healed. You need to rest!" He laid a gentle hand on the back of his shoulder, trying not to hurt him but wanting to be sure that Lancelot knew he was not going anywhere.

"I'm fine," he protested, but his eyelids were already flickering shut, and he was asleep again within moments.

"Of course you are," Arthur said fondly as he rose to go tell the others the good news. "Perfectly fine."

* * *

It was two weeks before Lancelot was healed enough to travel back to their own garrison. Even then, he had to argue extensively before Arthur agreed to let him ride his horse instead of in a cart. His back was still covered in one massive scab, but he could move around well enough, and the surgeons had assured him the only evidence it would leave was scars. Gawain's leg had healed at last, along with Galahad's sprained wrist. Marcus Servius had fled the fort in fear. The day he went missing, Tristan had also disappeared. He returned the next night. He never told anyone where he'd gone, but he'd exchanged a meaningful glance with Arthur and seemed to be in uncommonly high spirits.

Atticus wasn't traveling back with them. He'd received orders to head to a garrison further south for training to be an officer. His farewell was sad but grateful, and he seemed particularly warm towards Lancelot, whom he now idolized.

As they rode away from the fort, not even Tristan saw the shadowy figure at the edge of the forest watching them until they were out of sight.

On the last night of their journey back, which took much longer than it had the first time, Arthur was sitting on guard duty. He'd refused to allow Lancelot to join him, saying he still needed the rest. But when someone sat down beside him half an hour into his shift, he was hardly surprised.

They didn't say anything at first, just watched the embers in the fire die away. Lancelot was the first to break the silence.

"I'm sorry I questioned your orders on the beach," he said softly, and Arthur turned to stare at him in shock. "I shouldn't have-"

Arthur cut him off. "You're sorry?" He asked, incredulous. "You're sorry? Lance, you were right all along! I'm sorry I didn't listen to you! If I had, maybe none of this would have happened."

"Still," Lancelot said, hesitating. "You're my captain. It is not my place to question your orders."

"Lancelot," said Arthur, exasperated. "You're my _friend_. It's your duty to question me when you think I am straying from my path! Promise me you'll never just follow me blindly because you dare not question my orders! And promise me another thing; never agree to serve a punishment that you don't deserve." Lancelot was silent. "Atticus told me you swore to take whatever punishment Servius decided on to keep him from going back alone. Promise me you won't do that again. You hadn't done anything wrong, and I know that even if he hadn't attacked you, you would've submitted."

"Well," Lancelot said with a wry grin. "I was hoping you'd wake up first. You did outrank him."

"I'm serious, Lancelot. Don't put yourself in that kind of unnecessary danger, ever. I thought you were dead. I'm not sure how you survived that, but I am grateful to whichever god oversaw it."

Lancelot grinned slightly. "I promise I won't do that again. But I can't promise not to follow you into dangerous and hopeless situations. Friends do that too."

Arthur smiled and squeezed his shoulder gently. "Fine. That I can live with." But he still couldn't shake the memory of how it felt to look at (what he thought was) Lancelot's dead body. Shuddering slightly, he turned his gaze back to the fire. Two years more and Lance and the others would be free and safe, and Britain would be nothing more than a bad memory.


End file.
